The Iron Throne rose like a jagged mountain of black needles and melted blades, casting long, predatory shadows across the Great Hall of the Red Keep.

The court was suffocatingly quiet, a tense, breathless theater of silks and hidden daggers.

At the apex of the dais sat King Daeron II, his expression etched with a scholar's weariness and a sovereign's growing dread.

Beside him stood his pride, Prince Baelor the Spear-Breaker, a man of solid iron and duty, and Prince Aerys, your twin brother, whose bookish eyes darted nervously over the assembly.

But all eyes in the hall—including those of the commoners pressed against the heavy oak doors—were fixed upon you.

You stood as the only daughter of King Daeron II, a pristine blossom of the royal house.

Your skin was a flawless, vibrant canvas, striking an otherworldly contrast against the deep violet-lilac of your glittering-rimmed eyes.

Your hair, a magnificent, thick, and voluminous mane of shimmering, glossy silver-gold, cascaded down your shoulders, your chest, and your entire back, its lustrous, silky waves brushing the very stones at your ankles.

You were a beauty of globalization, an ethereal icon of Valyrian perfection.

Years ago, at the great tourney, it was your favor that had been taken, and it was your brow that had been crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty by a lance tip.

That crown had been promised to Baelor the Spear-Breaker to seal the realm’s stability, for your twin Aerys had no desire for such martial pageantry.

From the moment you drew your first breath, your father had earmarked your hand and your heart for the crown prince's future court.

Yet, the man who had truly crowned you that day now stood at the center of the hall, defying the entire world.

Daemon Blackfyre stood tall and broad-shouldered, a dragon man through and through.

He had realized the bitter truth: despite being legitimized by their father Aegon IV on his deathbed, his peaceful case for the Iron Throne was slipping into the ash of bureaucracy. But Daemon had drawn his final line.

He was already a husband to Rohanne of Tyrosh, a father to nine children, and the paternal master of the newly founded House Blackfyre.

But he did not merely seek a political card or a guaranteed presence at court to match the rising shadow of Bloodraven.

He wanted you. He wanted leverage over his studious half-brother, a hostage of supreme love to ensure the absolute safety and principal status of his house—and he wanted to claim the niece he had desired since the day she took her place among the court.

The heavy steel plates of his armor, embroidered with the writhing black dragon, gleamed beneath the high windows.

His deep silver-gold hair fell like a mantle over his shoulders, and his sharp, aristocratic features wore that devastating, regal smile that had seduced half the realm.

"Brother,"

Daemon’s voice rang out, a commanding, resonant baritone that cut through the silent hall like a sword striking a bell. He did not look at Daeron; his intense, purple eyes were locked entirely upon you.

"I do not come to beg for the crumbs of your table. I come to claim what the dragon’s blood demands.

Give me your daughter. Grant me her hand in marriage, let her grace the halls of House Blackfyre as my wife and the sovereign protector of our peace, and I shall swear my steel to your throne forever."

A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the court. Baelor stepped forward, his hand dropping to his sword hilt, his face darkened with righteous fury.

"She is promised to the succession of the crown, Waters! You are a married man with nine children at your back. You insult the King, you insult the Septons, and you insult her."

Daemon didn't even blink.

He ignored the prince, his fluid, lethal grace carrying him three paces closer to the dais, stopping directly below where you stood.

The smirk on his lips grew sharper, more dangerous.

"I am no longer Waters, nephew,"

Daemon murmured, his tone smooth as vintage wine but carrying the terrifying weight of an impending war.